Tag: writing
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What lies past the curtain?
What lies past the curtain? Machine-cut headstones, or uncanny brows? Butcher bags, or our neighbour’s best guess? You. I can see your shadow on my grave: Puce ears, stained skin. You clear yesterday’s rubbish, Left by some Rock-raved, unwary kid— Polish the dimensions, caress the crest; Think, remember: unwashed trays in the scullery, A room…
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From my ceiling
My ceiling’s splintered into classes.Verdant, because it was never trodden; Fixed ripples turn into brocade and then,Brocade breaks down into your face just when— Your memory hisses, whilst I listen: Sound is stoppered still within the surface; Solo music from an untuned trumpet, Familiar, though a foreign band plays. Ordure often reeks of rot and…
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Roots
Mulberries, Pose outside my window; The perks of cocooning, Away from the daily show. They saunter, then wade, Like soot that burns and plummets; Soldiering against the gales, A dungeon for the magpie’s stolen nest. I’ve heard that they connect, With synergy beyond the lovers’ reach. Once snow-white, now dripping red, Branches whorled by unlevelled…
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The Underground
Tube lights flicker, Tether and splinter; A hollow sound of yore— Gashes against the window. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · To my surprise, The outside is what is in: Only my face, and vacant space. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Below us, the tracks all gather, In concrete unison, against the…
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Connection
Inspired by “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me” from Sherlock BBC 🖤 · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Flame-coloured pavement, Thickly-set concrete; I crouch, my fingers press, Jostling the earthenware. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Writhing, shivering, beckoning— With gait and stride like the army’s, The fog slithers and deceives,…
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Hiraeth
I long to be, Somewhere free from me; To leave my youthful body, And the age of vanity. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · I long to be, Amidst the dirt, Its fragments, unearthing my crust; To be scared of the beasts that surround me, Who came from the same Creator, And shall return…
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The Rupture
I’m always peeking in the distance. Sirens sounding, I hear nothing, I’ve never before lived as the Fool, Concealing my own nature, Waiting for the rupture. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · I’m slow and weak, Quiescent like an infant, I count the steps, I count the beats, I pull, and push, like Sisyphus.…
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For the New Year: As a Writer
It comes with expectations and disappointments. Sighs of relief and melancholy. You’re perched on a threshold — looking ahead at the untrodden road that lies before you, whilst looking back at how far you’ve come. But one thing remains the same: you made it. Let that mean something. To the creative spirit: thank you for…
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Labyrinth
I wrote this poem to explore cycles of faith, decay, and capitalism through the intertwined imagery of fungi and myth, reflecting on how belief systems can entrap as much as they sustain. Walpurgis night, and rings of fire,Saints never found the witch’s grot;Crooked, consumed, circular choir,Not barren bares, but cravats on corpse.—Yet they didn’t dance…
The Barbaric Yawp 